


Honey, you're familiar like my mirror

by Zolac_no_Miko



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Bodyswap, Crisis of Faith, First Kiss, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Ineffable Partners, M/M, Missing Scene, Mutual Pining, Other, Pining, Post-Canon, Quote: We're On Our Own Side (Good Omens), Quote: You can stay at my place (Good Omens), Time to leave the garden, Very Victorian Sensuality, look we all gotta, so much pining, the scene that spawned a thousand fanfics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-12
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2020-08-19 19:50:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20215318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zolac_no_Miko/pseuds/Zolac_no_Miko
Summary: “Crowley,” Aziraphale said, and hesitated.  He looked a touch apprehensive, a touch hopeful.  “I’d like to take you up on your invitation, if it’s still on offer.”





	Honey, you're familiar like my mirror

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:** A few swears? I think that's it?
> 
> **Author's Note:** I HAVE NEVER WRITTEN THIS MANY WORDS THIS QUICKLY.
> 
> Look, we've all got to write the Saturday night scene, right? It's almost a fandom requirement. Anyway I had some Feelings about a few specific things that I hadn't really seen addressed elsewhere, so, you know, be the emotional terrorism you want to see in the world.
> 
> Crowley and Aziraphale use he/him pronouns in this fic, but I strongly subscribe to the notion that they have none of the genders and/or all of the genders, and just tend to use male pronouns/body shapes as a convenient default most of the time. Thus why I ticked the "Other relationships" box. But this fic basically reads M/M.
> 
> MASSIVE THANKS to [lllookalive](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lllookalive) for beta and cheerleading and SO MUCH MORE. ...Look, anything either of us writes in this fandom is a direct result of the untold hundreds of thousands of words we've capslocked at each other in twitter dms, so like, a lot of this is me, but some of it is her, and most of it comes from our shared Sad Trash Angel/Hysterical Dumpsterfire Demon ~Feelings~ hive mind. If you notice similar themes in our works ever... uh, there's a reason for that.
> 
> Love and gratitude also to the excellent [Black_Crystal_Dragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Black_Crystal_Dragon) for Britpick services. Thank you to the magnificent [dreamwaffles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamwaffles) and to both of the aforementioned for title wrangling assistance as well.

Aziraphale was very quiet on the bus ride back to London. He was tired. So, so very tired. _Existentially_ tired. He even let himself lean against Crowley’s shoulder a little, for strength. For comfort. Crowley allowed it. He was quiet as well. Behind his sunglasses he could almost be sleeping, but Aziraphale knew he wasn’t.

There was a lot to think about. Crowley’s words rang in his head, painfully, like he was standing too close to a church bell. _“You don’t have a side anymore. Neither of us do. We’re on our own side.”_

Crowley had said so before, at the bandstand. He’d heavily implied it before that. It’s what the last eleven years had been about—Aziraphale and Crowley, together, for the survival of the world and all of humanity, against the entirety of Heaven and Hell and all the might of fate and prophecy. Aziraphale had gone along with it, for the sake of the world, but he hadn’t been willing, hadn’t been able to take that final step. He was an _angel_, he _obeyed_. There was a divine plan and he was just a tiny part of it. There were rules, and he followed them, that was just the way things _were_.

But now… there was no going back now, was there. Heaven and Hell would be out for blood. Rather literally, he feared. And even if Heaven were inclined to be forgiving… he _couldn’t_. There was something… something _wrong_ with the plan, or at least Heaven’s interpretation of it. Gabriel, Michael, Uriel, all of them—they were _wrong_. They were willing to see all of Creation burn and boil and fall to ruins, to see billions die—not just willing, they _wanted_ it.

Aziraphale wasn’t one of them. Not anymore. Not ever again.

There was a hollowness there, at that thought, a gaping emptiness crumbling open in the back of his chest. Heaven had been his home, once, a long time ago. The angels had been his family. And he had just cast himself out, voluntarily. It was a sad, lonely feeling.

But then, Crowley. Aziraphale glanced over at him; he was gazing idly out the window, pondering his own thoughts. That steadfast, familiar, beloved face. He still had Crowley. So that was all right then.

The aching in his chest eased.

Well. Heaven and Hell. That _was_ a problem, wasn’t it. So what were they going to do about it?

Aziraphale’s thoughts turned once more to the scorched scrap of paper tucked away in his coat pocket: Agnes Nutter’s final prophecy. He was familiar enough with Agnes’ powers at this point to know that the scrap hadn’t blown into his hands by chance—it was meant for him. For them. And he also knew well enough that Agnes’ prophecies were in no way metaphorical; they were entirely literal, and utterly unmysterious if read by the intended audience at the intended time.

So, soon then. Literal fire. And literal choosing of faces. …Oh dear.

~ ~ ~

The bus ride felt interminably long. Crowley yearned wistfully for the speed of his Bentley, then felt a pang somewhere in the neighborhood of one of the fleshy bits in his chest. Ecchh.

The angel stayed silent beside him, and Crowley let him be, mostly staring out the window into the darkness covering the world—the world, which was still there, not covered in fire and ashes or drowning in blood. He snuck occasional sidelong glances at Aziraphale. He was a bit worried about him, if he was honest (which he generally tried not to be). Or, not worried. _Concerned_. They were good at comfortable silences, the two of them, it wasn’t that. The angel just seemed… worn down. Maybe sad? He had that little wrinkle in his forehead he got sometimes when he was thinking really hard.

Crowley figured it was best to leave him to it. He could ask later. Aziraphale usually liked to talk things through, eventually. So he kept his peace, and tried to think his own thoughts. _Tried_, mostly. Upon sitting down, Aziraphale had leaned into his space and pressed his shoulder to Crowley’s and just—left it there. Crowley could almost swear he could feel the angel’s warmth through several layers of their clothing. It was. Very distracting. It was difficult to think of very much else at all.

The bus eventually made its way to London—the M25 didn’t seem to be on fire anymore, so that was good. As they approached Crowley’s block, he stirred himself, sitting up a little. A moment later, the angel touched his wrist. Crowley looked over at him, surprised.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, and hesitated. He looked a touch apprehensive, a touch hopeful. “I’d like to take you up on your invitation, if it’s still on offer.”

Crowley blinked several times in quick succession. “Of course it is, angel,” he said, and was rewarded with one of Aziraphale’s blessed _smiles_. His lips started to stretch into an answering smile, but Crowley scolded them back into place. The bus was slowing down, despite being nowhere near a bus stop; Crowley jerked his head toward the door. “C’mon.”

Aziraphale followed Crowley to the front door of his building, across the lobby, and into the lift, a warm but quiet presence at his side. As the lift climbed, humming, Crowley began to suffer a small fit of nerves. It had become fairly commonplace for Crowley to stop by the angel’s shop for drinks and conversation, but somehow in the decades since he’d acquired it, Aziraphale had never been to Crowley’s flat, or any of his previous London acquisitions. Not that Crowley himself had ever spent much time in any of them either; his flat, like the previous ones, was just a convenient place to keep his stuff, someplace to _go_ when he had nothing better to do, a place to sleep for a few months when things got boring (like the spring of 1991). Crowley wasn’t really one for nesting. But still… Aziraphale was bound to have _opinions_. He _always_ had _opinions_.

When they reached his floor, Crowley opened the door, gesturing the angel in ahead of him with just the tiniest bit of apprehension. Aziraphale explored slowly, hands clasped in front of him as he took in every detail, examining every art piece in Crowley’s collection with interest. He stepped into Crowley’s study, glancing around quickly before drifting off to the left, pushing experimentally through Crowley’s rotating door and shooting Crowley an amused glance as he did so. Hang it all, he was having opinions already. Crowley scowled, following him.

“Oh, these are _lovely_!” Aziraphale enthused, smiling delightedly, stepping in close to examine a young _Musa velutina_ and trailing a finger down its leaf. Crowley’s vague unease expanded into mild alarm. This had probably been a _terrible idea_. Aziraphale smiled beatifically at him. “Crowley, your plants are beautiful.” He was already wandering off down the hall.

“Yes, they’re _very well behaved_,” Crowley hissed, glaring balefully around at his botanical collection before following.

Aziraphale had come to rest in front of… oh no. In front of Crowley’s statue of Evil Triumphing Over Good. Thrice-blessed cocknosed bloody cunty_bollocks_, Crowley should’ve hidden that. Crowley shoved his hands into his pockets, scowling and trying not to fidget. Aziraphale stared at the statue, silent, perfectly still, lips pursed, for nearly an entire minute, before Crowley just couldn’t take it anymore. “_What?_” he growled.

Aziraphale turned away from the statue, slid Crowley a sidelong look, raised both his eyebrows as high as they would go… and then sidled serenely past him, calmly continuing his exploration of the flat.

Well, thought Crowley a bit desperately, it wasn’t too late to burn down the building, flee to the hinterlands, and spend the rest of eternity hiding in a cave.

He pinched at the bridge of his nose, swallowing a groan, and then turned to follow after Aziraphale again. The angel leaned through a doorway to briefly survey the kitchen before heading back in the direction of the study, pausing briefly to murmur delighted nonsense to a fern (augh).

This time his attention was caught by the Mona Lisa sketch. “Oh, this is exquisite,” he breathed, leaning in close to inspect the line work. “Did you know him?”

“Sure,” Crowley said. “Smart guy, good drinking partner.”

The angel hummed thoughtfully. “You know, I think I like this better than the final painting.”

Crowley grinned. “So did he.”

Aziraphale continued his slow circuit of the room. Crowley leaned against the wall in a casual, artful sprawl and watched him. Aziraphale inspected a vase, glanced down the hallway, trailed a finger over the red marble of Crowley’s desktop. He examined the ornate gilded woodwork of Crowley’s desk and desk chair, looking, obnoxiously, distinctly amused. Finally he turned to look at Crowley, folding his hands in front of him. “Well,” he said, a tiny smile on his face that was insufferably fond, “it’s all very _you_, Crowley.”

“Thanks,” Crowley drawled, dry as the Sahara.

Aziraphale’s eyes sparkled. “A _throne_, though, Crowley, _really_.”

“Shut up,” Crowley groused half-heartedly. “It’s a chair.”

“It’s got lion-head armrests.”

“It’s a _fancy chair_.” Crowley pushed himself up off of the wall. “Do you want anything? Something to drink?”

“Thank you, my dear, I think perhaps a small nightcap would not go amiss.” Aziraphale was wandering off again already, attention caught by a glimpse of London’s lights through the blinds on Crowley’s French windows. He settled a hand on the door handle then glanced over his shoulder at Crowley. “May I?”

“What’s mine is yours, angel,” Crowley replied, then clamped his mouth firmly shut and froze in place, eyes wide behind his sunglasses. Aziraphale, too, had frozen. He appeared to have forgotten entirely to breathe. Crowley watched with perverse fascination the complex interplay of emotions that crossed the angel’s face, the way he almost literally seemed to _glow_.

After several long seconds Aziraphale took a breath, his eyes soft, his voice unbearably quiet and gentle; “_Crowley_.”

“There’s a 21-year-old Balvenie I haven’t opened yet, I’ll get it,” Crowley said, and fled to the kitchen.

Crowley paced round and round the kitchen island, hissing a torrent of every single one of the most vicious curses he knew, before coming to rest at the refrigerator, hitting his head soundly against it several times. Then he sighed, his shoulders slumping. Every fruit in his fruit bowl had shriveled up and blackened, expiring from sheer terror. He snapped his fingers, restoring them to ripeness. Then Crowley fetched two balls of ice from his spherical molds, dropped them into tumblers, snagged his bottle of Balvenie, and took bottle and glasses back out into the study.

The French windows were open, and Aziraphale was out on Crowley’s balcony, gazing out over London town. Crowley joined him, somewhat apprehensively, and they looked out at the lights together for a few moments. The air was crisp, but not too cold. The city was a galaxy of lights, and even at this late hour (it was well after midnight by this point) it was bustling, millions of people going about their boring, ordinary lives. Noise wafted up from below, car engines, lorries beeping as they went in reverse, coughs, sneezes, cats yowling, bass beats pouring out of discotheques. The air stank a little. It was beautiful.

“It’s a nice night, don’t you think?” asked Aziraphale, turning toward Crowley. “Ah, thank you.”

Crowley handed Aziraphale the glasses while he unsealed the bottle. He could feel the angel watching him intently, his gaze on Crowley’s face almost like a physical touch. Crowley studiously avoided eye contact, pouring for both of them before setting the bottle aside and retrieving his tumbler from Aziraphale. He cleared his throat, glancing at the angel cautiously. “Cheers.”

“Salut,” said Aziraphale, clinking his glass against Crowley’s. He sipped; Crowley watched in helpless fascination as the angel took a sharp little breath, eyelids fluttering with pleasure. “Mm.”

“Finished in port casks,” Crowley commented desperately, and smothered a wince.

Aziraphale smiled. “_Lovely_.”

Crowley turned away and stared fixedly out at the view. He scolded himself for being so… _twitchy_. The angel was in his flat, no big deal. They drank at Aziraphale’s all the time. Aziraphale needed a place to stay for the night, Crowley was doing the decen—the _not-dickish_ thing and helping him out. This was fine.

Crowley let out a long, slow breath, tried to let the normalcy of the evening wash over him. Despite the events of the day, _this_ was familiar: a late London evening, a drink in his hand, Aziraphale a comforting and reliable presence at his elbow. Right where he should be.

He took a sip of his whiskey, let the flavors wash over his tongue. Fruit forward. Spices… cinnamon? Nuts. Honey and cream. Smoke. _Smoke._ The smell of burning books and wood. Glass breaking, water hissing into steam. The roar and the crackle of fire.

Crowley shuddered and took a larger swallow, wincing at the burn of it. He cut a glance over at Aziraphale. Just to be sure.

The angel was gazing out over London again. “…It’s all still there,” he said softly, with the faintest note of wonder.

“Despite Heaven and Hell’s best efforts.” Crowley turned his glass in his hand, feeling his fingertips slip on the condensation. “…We can hope to be so lucky.” He took another large swallow.

Aziraphale turned to him, brow wrinkling. “Yes. I’ve, ah… I’ve been thinking about that. Quite a bit.”

Crowley hummed thoughtfully. “So have I. …Let’s hear it then, angel.”

“Well. I, ah….” Aziraphale glanced around, clearly looking for a place to sit.

Crowley snapped his fingers and a sofa manifested just inside the doors, facing out towards the balcony: low and slender, sharply rectangular, mounted on four skinny legs, and upholstered in shining black leather. It was _aggressively_ modern. Crowley smiled in vague satisfaction. Ignoring Aziraphale’s soft huff of amusement, he came inside and sprawled expansively over one end of the sofa. “Leave the doors,” he suggested. The angel was right, it was a nice night. He supposed they ought to enjoy it.

“How does one sit on that thing, it looks like you’d be in danger of just sliding off,” Aziraphale commented, his lips twitching at the edge of a poorly concealed smirk.

“Shut it,” Crowley growled. “Sit.”

Aziraphale sat… not at the far end of the sofa, as was his habit, but rather decidedly near the middle, angled to face towards Crowley. Their knees were separated by approximately one quarter of an inch. Crowley stared.

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “So I have been thinking,” he continued, quiet, serious. Crowley wrenched his attention back to the angel’s face. “I don’t believe our respective, ah… employers will be inclined to look kindly on what we have done. Heaven, for one, I’m quite certain will be looking to… to make an example of me.”

Crowley’s fingers curled, hand tightening into a fist. “Hell too.”

The angel nodded. “These are… these are serious crimes that we’ve committed, Crowley. Heaven can’t afford to just let that go. I believe I’d be looking at—the maximum. Casting me out, or. Execution. …Which seems the more likely of the two, under the circumstances.” Aziraphale’s lips were pressed tightly together, grim. His face was pale. Crowley watched him take a steadying sip of his scotch. “I rather think that is what Agnes meant. ‘For soon enough you will be playing with fire.’”

“Hellfire.” He couldn’t look away from the angel’s face. He felt remarkably calm. “Hell will be wanting to get rid of me, too. Only, hellfire doesn’t burn me.”

“No,” agreed Aziraphale quietly. “But holy water does.”

Crowley nodded, took a sip of his Balvenie. So far the angel’s thoughts were in line with his own. Which was good. They needed clarity, here. They couldn’t afford to cock this one up. “They’d have to work together. Which I can easily see them doing, for this one thing.” He thought of Gabriel and Beelzebub, whispering furiously to each other on the tarmac. It left a sour taste in his mouth.

“Yes,” said Aziraphale. There was a long pause. “So that brings to mind the other part of Agnes’ prophecy.”

Crowley met Aziraphale’s gaze steadily. “‘Choose your faces wisely.’”

Aziraphale nodded. “We could disguise ourselves and run, try to hide out somewhere, but—I don’t believe that would work, they’d hunt us down, they’d never give up. However… if we presented them with what they _expected_ to see… perhaps they wouldn’t look past the obvious.”

And there it was. “Angel… I’ve been thinking the exact same thing.”

“Ah.” They stared at each other for a few long seconds. Aziraphale fidgeted. “So it’s a plan, then. Trading places.”

“Trading faces,” Crowley agreed wryly, lifting his glass.

They lapsed into silence again, separately pondering the ramifications. Crowley stared into his whiskey glass, watching the blurry swirls of liquid where his ice melted into the ethanol. Did they really want to take this risk? It was a dangerous plan, particularly for Aziraphale. Heaven was boring in its predictability; Hell was liable to get a little more… creative when it came to handing out punishments. It didn’t bear thinking about what they might do to Aziraphale, thinking the angel was _him_; Crowley couldn’t even get close to the idea without feeling sick, ears ringing, his body hot and cold at the same time. He couldn’t let that happen, he couldn’t—but what was the alternative? Let Heaven take Aziraphale, let him walk unarmed and obedient to the executioner’s block? No. _No_.

Crowley drained the rest of his whiskey.

Aziraphale made an odd, abortive noise, somewhat like a hiccup. Crowley looked up. The angel looked, of all things, like he was trying not to _laugh_. Crowley stared. “What is it?”

“Oh, nothing, it’s just—if this works out, if it all goes to plan, it occurred to me… they’ll have absolutely no idea what to make of us, none at all. I mean, can you _imagine_?” His eyes sparkled with amusement.

Crowley blinked at him, then felt, despite himself, his lips stretch into an answering smirk. “…You know, if we play this right, we might be able to get them to leave us alone for a while.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale looked startled. “…Oh, do you think so? That would be… I rather think I would like that. Very much.” Aziraphale seemed to deflate slightly, his voice going soft… _yearning_. Crowley caught his breath, tried to think of something to say. In the next moment the angel yawned, so wide his jaw cracked, and deflated a little more.

“Angel, you look tired,” Crowley said gently. And he did. Aziraphale was put together perfectly as usual, every hair, every piece of clothing in its proper place, but he looked somehow… wilted, that faint, angelic glow a bit more muted than usual. “Do you think you might sleep tonight?”

Aziraphale blinked fuzzily. “You know, I believe I actually might.”

Crowley swallowed. “Well. I have a large and very comfortable bed.”

“Thank you, Crowley,” Aziraphale said softly. He paused a moment. “And will you? Sleep?”

“Oh Satan, yes,” Crowley groaned, “I’m knackered. Do you know, this day feels like it’s been an entire _year_?”

“Quite,” Aziraphale agreed. The angel just sat and looked at him for a moment, then tossed back the last of his drink, standing briskly. “Well then. My dear, are you done with that?” He took Crowley’s empty tumbler from him, disappearing both glasses with a dismissive wave of his fingers. Crowley was quite sure he would find them later in his kitchen, washed, dried, and neatly put away in their proper place. “Shall we?”

Crowley pushed himself up off of the sofa and led the way toward his bedroom, suddenly very self-conscious about trying to appear _un_self-conscious about the supremely casual way in which he was walking. He was pretty certain he was failing.

They’d shared a bed a few times before, of course. It didn’t used to be that unusual of a thing for people to do: friends, family members, even complete strangers in crowded inns. It didn’t used to have to _mean_ anything. It was only much more recently that humans had started to become squeamish about it, for some reason.

Aziraphale didn’t sleep often, but occasionally when he was tired enough—or more often, drunk enough, but didn’t feel like going through the trouble of sobering up—he would accept Crowley’s suggestion and stumble upstairs to whatever room Crowley was renting and collapse into bed with him. You know, as friends did.

Crowley fully expected this time to be just as maddening as all of the other times.

He paused at the doorway to allow Aziraphale to survey the bedroom, categorically refusing to fidget as he watched the angel’s face. Crowley’s bedroom was like the rest of the flat: gloomy, austere, a seamless blend of archaic and the bleeding edge of contemporary. Case in point, his bed was a massive carved wooden four-poster with Signoria Firenze Raffeallo lead grey sheets.

Aziraphale had the same vaguely delighted look on his face that he’d had since he walked in the front door, which Crowley couldn’t quite decide whether to be annoyed or pleased by. The angel nodded to himself, apparently satisfied by—whatever—then pursed his lips, patting absently at his clothing. Aziraphale snapped his fingers; his clothes were now folded neatly and draped over the back of a chair, shoes placed just so on the floor beneath them. He was wearing, instead, a pair of comfortable-looking flannel pajamas in tartan, because of course he was.

Crowley studiously avoided noticing that Aziraphale was barefoot in his bedroom and considered his own options. Left to his own devices, he usually didn’t wear _much_ to sleep in, but. Well. He snapped, sending his clothes off to he-didn’t-particularly-care-where-exactly, replacing them with expensive-looking sleepwear in black silk.

The angel was already climbing into Crowley’s bed and settling in under the covers. His eyes lit up. “Oh! Ooooh… these are _nice_,” he said, wriggling delightedly and burrowing deeper into the sheets.

Crowley smirked. He _would_, the little hedonist. “Three hundred thread count, single ply Egyptian cotton,” he declared proudly.

“I have no idea what any of that means,” Aziraphale said cheerfully, gazing at him with a smile of deep satisfaction from inside his little nest in the sheets.

Crowley busied himself with taking off his sunglasses and setting them on the bedside table to give himself something to look at that wasn’t _that_. “It means they’re soft.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes, smiling fondly. “Yes, I figured that out on my own, you old silly.”

Crowley grimaced, mouthing _old silly!_ in horrified disbelief as he climbed into bed. He shifted, getting comfortable, before lying still and staring up at the ceiling. Looking over at Aziraphale for any length of time seemed an entirely unacceptable risk. The angel hadn’t said anything at all for nearly an entire minute, which was horribly suspicious. Crowley decided to take matters into his own hands. He _barely_ resisted the urge to clear his throat before saying, “Well. Goodnight, angel.”

“Oh, my dear Crowley. Sleep well,” Aziraphale replied with an overwhelming and frankly unnecessary amount of fondness and sincerity, which was more than any demon ought to be expected to handle. Crowley snapped, and the lights went out.

After a few more minutes of staring at the ceiling, Crowley squeezed his eyes shut. He had no idea how he could possibly be expected to sleep under the circumstances, but he supposed he ought to try. He concentrated on his breathing, deep and slow. The breathing part was entirely unnecessary, of course, but a useful relaxation technique just the same. He counted his breaths, doing his best to ignore the sound and the feel of Aziraphale shifting on the mattress next to him, once, and then again a few minutes later, sighing softly.

And then Aziraphale shifted again, rolling towards Crowley and _plastering himself against his side_. Crowley twitched violently, nearly biting off his tongue, and then froze, forgetting to breathe. Aziraphale was very nearly lying on one of his arms, his cheek smooshed against Crowley’s shoulder. A single soft, warm hand rested delicately on Crowley’s chest.

BY ALL THE BLESSED SAINTS IN HEAVEN. _WHAT._

Aziraphale made a noise. It was fairly soft, a quiet, wheezy sort of thing, but it was, definitively, a snore.

Aziraphale was snoring.

Crowley pulled his free hand from the sheets, placed it on his face, and quietly despaired of his life.

First of all, there was absolutely no justifiable reason for any variety of snoring to be considered ‘cute.’ By definition, snoring ought never to be anything other than unattractive.

And yet, Aziraphale.

Crowley found suddenly that he was laughing, his whole body shaking with a silent but powerful fit of hysterical laughter. Aziraphale snored softly on, apparently oblivious. Crowley shook and shook until his ribcage ached and tears leaked out of the corners of his eyes. Finally, he gusted out a sigh, exhaling slow and careful as he thumbed the moisture away. His fucking _life_. This bloody _angel_. This—beautiful, ridiculous, _infuriating_ angel—who was _here_, and _alive_, and—snoring happily in Crowley’s bed, and Crowley would fight the whole host of them, Above and Below, to keep him that way.

Finally, finally, he succumbed to temptation (ha) and turned to look at Aziraphale. He was very, very close, the soft, pale blond curls of his hair mere inches from Crowley’s nose. The angel’s face was a bit smooshed from the way he’d mashed his cheek into Crowley’s shoulder. He looked astonishingly peaceful, his brow unwrinkled by any worries, anxieties, or fears. His mouth was softly open. 

Crowley looked away again, swallowing hard. Chr—_Lucifer_, it just wasn’t fair, how, how… _everything_ Aziraphale was. He could feel the angel’s hand on his chest, a feather-light weight pinning him in place more inexorably than a mountain of granite. Crowley stopped breathing for a moment and then gently, so gently, laid his hand on top of Aziraphale’s, curling his fingers just slightly in an attempt to capture every joule of warmth leaching from the angel’s soft skin.

Crowley stared up into the murky shadows of his cavernous ceiling. He felt like his heart was going to bash its way violently through his ribcage to freedom. He was definitely never going to get to sleep now. No chance. Not with every atom of his being vibrating with awareness of the weight of Aziraphale against his arm, of the warmth steadily soaking into him, of the soft raspiness of Aziraphale’s every breath, the slight tickle of it stirring the hairs on his arm—

Crowley fell abruptly into a deep, solid, and dreamless sleep, and knew nothing more until morning.

~ ~ ~

“My name is Anthony J. Crowley, and I am cool,” said Aziraphale, staring at Crowley’s face in a mirror.

He had woken about an hour previously, vaguely confused but feeling delightfully refreshed. And when he had opened his eyes… Crowley. They had both been asleep on their sides, curved towards each other like a pair of apostrophes, the beginning and end of something unspoken. Crowley, ever the snake, had curled up as much as his lanky human form could manage, his knees brought up halfway towards his chest, Aziraphale a longer parenthetical curved around him.

Crowley’s face had been mere inches from his own. Crowley’s kneecaps had gently brushed Aziraphale’s flannelled thighs. One of Crowley’s hands had been curled, loosely but decisively, into the front of Aziraphale’s pajama shirt, long fingers tucked in amongst the buttons.

It was almost excruciating at times, Aziraphale had thought, how much he loved him.

Crowley’s face, which when awake was so rarely seen without a scowl or a sardonic twist, had been relaxed, peaceful, his eyelashes laying delicately against the soft skin just there below his eyes, his lips just lightly parted as he breathed. Aziraphale’s beautiful demon. Aziraphale had burned to lean in close and press his own mouth gently, reverently, to Crowley’s forehead, to the very corner of his eye, to—

Instead, Aziraphale had lain still, carefully memorizing every smallest detail of Crowley’s dear face, the soft sound of his breathing, the smell of his skin. And then he had carefully detached Crowley’s hand from his shirt, slipped quietly from the bed, and gone to make tea.

He had fretted over waking Crowley—he’d earned a proper rest, but they really oughtn’t let their guard down, today of all days—but Crowley had saved him the trouble, sauntering into the kitchen a short while later awake and fully dressed, his hair having already achieved its artful, gravity-defying swoop. Aziraphale had smiled and handed him a mug of tea—black, brewed strong and bitter, and just this side of scalding, the way Crowley liked it—and they had settled in to make their plans.

Now Aziraphale was feeling his way through the surreal and slightly exhilarating experience of _being_ Crowley. He’d taken on other forms from time to time, even inhabited the already-occupied human body of Marjorie Potts, a.k.a. Madame Tracy—but this was distinctly _different_.

“Cool,” he said again, staring into the mirror. “Cool cool cool cool cool.” He tried to affect Crowley’s loose-limbed slouch, but the muscles and joints and bones wouldn’t—quite—go. A small, uninterpretable noise made him turn.

Aziraphale’s own body was stretched out in a lazy, leaning sprawl, one elbow propped against the wall, ankles crossed. Aziraphale’s face looked like it was struggling mightily to contain laughter. “Angel,” Crowley said, lips twitching, “bit of advice, if you’re trying to be cool, saying ‘cool’ out loud ten times in a row is not going to help with that.”

“It’s a _process_,” Aziraphale sniffed. “I’m trying to get into character.” He tsked, moving briskly towards Crowley. “Don’t _stand_ like that, dear, you’ll ruin the lines of the suit. Here—” Aziraphale bullied Crowley away from the wall, running his hands with brisk efficiency over his beloved suit (that Crowley was _ruining_), re-squaring the shoulders, tugging at the sleeves. “There, that’s better,” he said, giving his waistcoat a few final tugs—then became transfixed by the image of Crowley’s hands curled into Aziraphale’s clothing. Crowley’s long, slender fingers clinging tightly to the worn velvet of his waistcoat, very near to the buttons. Aziraphale stared. His stomach made a dizzying swoop, and then he released Crowley as if scalded, taking a half step back. “Oh,” he said somewhat tremulously, blinking up at Crowley. “I’m sorry, my dear, this is. It’s a bit disorientating.”

Aziraphale’s own face stared back, very close. It wasn’t at all like looking into a mirror; the perspective was skewed, looking down on his own face from just a few inches above and a millimeter to the side. Aziraphale’s head swam.

Crowley was quiet a few moments. “Yeah,” he said simply. Then he tilted his head, his—Aziraphale’s—Crowley’s—lips quirked into an amused smile. “Does my nose really look like that? I’ve never seen it from this angle.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “Oh hush, you’re not _that_ much taller than me, Crowley.” He eyed his body critically. “It’s because you’re _slouching_. Come on, head over shoulders over hips over feet… lift _up_, don’t sag down.” He took Crowley by the shoulders, shifting him square over his hips and lifting, then put a finger under his chin and tilted it up, just a smidge. Aziraphale took a larger step back then, clearing his throat and linking his fingers behind his back before his hands could get into any more trouble.

Crowley carefully folded his hands in front of himself and raised his eyebrows, completing the image. Aziraphale stared. “Yes, that will do,” he said, flustered. This really was all terribly _strange_.

Crowley’s lips twitched briefly, there and gone again. “Get a wiggle on,” he said with immense gravitas. “Mind how you go. Old chap. _Tickety boo_.”

“Oh, _stop_,” Aziraphale huffed, and Crowley grinned.

“This is going to be fun,” he said brightly. “But angel, angel… you’ve got to slouch _more_.”

“I’m _trying_,” Aziraphale whined, “I don’t understand how you _do_ it!”

“Your feet are too close together, move that one to the right a few inches.” Aziraphale did. Now it was Crowley’s turn to step in close and take him by the shoulders, shifting him slightly so his weight was over one foot. Then he huffed, looking irritated. “You’re too stiff. Take a deep breath, angel… and exhale, with your entire body. Relaaaaaaaaxx.”

Aziraphale did as instructed. “…Oh.” He blinked, looking down at himself. “Oh, that worked.”

Crowley made a _shrug_ face. “Better,” he conceded.

“My dear, _thank_ you,” Aziraphale told him warmly, beaming at him in gratitude.

Crowley blinked, then shook his head as if physically shaking something off. “…Don’t do that with my face, it’s unsettling.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “Right, I shall have to remember to scowl, all the live-long day.”

“You could smirk a little. I know you know how to do _that_.”

“I don’t smirk!”

“Yeeeaaaahh you do.” Aziraphale’s face was smirking right now in fact, but he could hardly be blamed for it. And he _certainly_ never had done _before_.

Crowley cleared his throat, his infuriating smirk fading. He fumbled for Aziraphale’s pocket watch, checked it, and snapped it closed. “…I suppose I should be going.”

Suddenly the giddy pleasure of their familiar banter and the strange, nervous energy simmering underneath were swept away, like a gust of cold wind snuffing out a candle. “Oh,” said Aziraphale faintly. “Oh, you’re right, you probably should.” Their idea was that they ought to stick to their normal routines, make themselves easy to find. Which meant ‘Aziraphale’ ought to be in Soho, while ‘Crowley’ stayed here, in Crowley’s Mayfair flat. If they didn’t get nabbed right away, they’d meet up later at their usual spot in St. James’ Park.

‘Getting nabbed’ was the whole _point_… but suddenly it was so very hard to contemplate letting Crowley walk out of here, alone, to just wander around Soho without Aziraphale there to watch out for him, until Heaven swooped down and dug into him with their nasty little claws—

“Angel?” inquired Crowley, sounding mildly concerned, and Aziraphale stepped forward, wrapping his arms around his demon and pulling him into a fierce, tight hug. Crowley froze stock-still for several long moments, and then tentatively curled his arms around Aziraphale, resting his hands gently, so gently on Aziraphale’s back. It wasn’t enough… it wasn’t _enough_, oh, what if something went wrong, what if Aziraphale never saw him again? No—no, he couldn’t think like that, if the plan was to work he couldn’t flinch. He would have to be brave, and then—there would be an after. There _would_.

“Everything’s going to be _fine_,” Aziraphale said, pressing certainty into every syllable, _willing_ it to be true. Carefully, reluctantly, he released Crowley.

Crowley’s gaze was intense, searching Aziraphale’s face. Aziraphale couldn’t be certain whether he found what he was looking for, but he did smile, fondness folded into the wrinkles around Aziraphale’s own eyes. “’Course it will,” Crowley agreed. “Still—” Crowley lifted a hand, brushing his thumb lightly, briefly, over Aziraphale’s cheek before dropping the hand and backing away towards the door. “—Take care of yourself, angel.”

_Oh._ Aziraphale felt full to overflowing with—_everything_, too many things. He could only look at Crowley, he couldn’t look away. “Godspeed, my dear.”

“Did you _have_ to,” Crowley complained, making a face, but he looked like he wanted to laugh, so Aziraphale did it for him.

Then Crowley walked out the door, and was gone.

Aziraphale breathed out, long and slow and careful. Then Aziraphale went to Crowley’s kitchen and ransacked his wine cupboard, pouring a very full glass from a bottle selected at random. He drank it in one go, setting the glass down again rather more firmly than he’d meant to. (It didn’t break; Crowley’s glasses knew better.) “Everything’s going to be fine,” he said again to the empty room. Aziraphale sighed and then snapped his fingers, summoning the mirror. Probably best to keep working at it.

Aziraphale pursed his lips at the reflection of Crowley’s rangy body. He went to the far end of the kitchen, turned back toward the mirror, and gave Crowley’s pendulous, serpentine walk a try. “_Oh_, oh no, oh no no no _goodness_ no,” he said, horrified. Oh, that was _terrible_, he looked like a marionette whose puppeteer was having a stroke. That was never going to work, best not to even try. How did Crowley _do_ that?

He was close to the mirror again, peering into it. “Slouch. _Relax_,” he told himself, practicing. He slid the sunglasses down Crowley’s nose just a smidge, leaning in close to stare into Crowley’s fascinating yellow eyes. Seeing out of them had been quite strange at first, but he’d adjusted quickly, the way one’s brain compensates for color-tinted spectacles. _Looking_ at them like this was a rare treat. Crowley so rarely let them out from behind his dark glasses, even when they were alone, and it wasn’t as if Aziraphale could get away with staring into them, even when they were thoroughly drunk (perhaps _especially_ when they were thoroughly drunk). A terrible shame, that, because they were truly quite beautiful. It was hard to see from a distance, but the gold of his reptilian irises was actually quite complex, a metallic shimmer in Venetian glass, or clouds swirling in the atmosphere of some distant planet—one of the ones Crowley had designed, perhaps.

Aziraphale tipped the sunglasses back up and opened his mouth, sliding his tongue curiously over Crowley’s sharp, gleaming white teeth. He closed his mouth and concentrated, rolling his tongue around, and oh—there it went, it was thin and forked and snaky. It didn’t feel at _all_ like a human tongue, and it tickled the roof of his mouth a little. Aziraphale tasted the air, nearly giggling at the sight and the feel of it. “Fasssssscinating,” he breathed, then slipped the tongue back into his mouth and, with a bit of concentration, changed it back.

Oh, but he was standing like himself again, tucked in and proper with his hands clasped in front of him. That wouldn’t do. Aziraphale shifted his weight like Crowley had showed him and tried for a casual ‘hands in pockets’ look. Except… _goodness_, Crowley’s trousers were tight, how did one get anything into them? Aziraphale squirmed and managed to get Crowley’s long hands _partly_ into the pockets. Not very useful as pockets, were they, Aziraphale mused. His fingers were squeezed tight between two layers of buttery leather and plastered against the thighs underneath. He couldn’t really move his hands at _all_, could he. Aziraphale wriggled his fingers with some difficulty, and no, they were trapped pretty thoroughly, he could feel every inch of Crowley’s wiry, muscled thighs beneath them _oh God_—

Aziraphale panicked, wrenching his hands back out of Crowley’s pockets.

This was… this was all very strange, and. And dangerous. Aziraphale swallowed shakily, staring down at Crowley’s hands. They were beautiful hands, elegant, long-boned and slender. Like all the rest of him. Aziraphale carefully, gently traced the fingertips of one across the palm of the other, then along the length of one finger. He turned the hands over, exploring each individual knuckle, the fine network of veins and the soft hairs on the back of the hand. The narrow wrist, the corded forearm under the jacket sleeve. He looked in the mirror again; Crowley’s face gazed back at him, and he reached up to touch… the fine points of Crowley’s cheekbones, the line of his jaw, fingers brushing lightly over his mouth. He traced the long, pale column of Crowley’s neck, the prominent point of his Adam’s apple.

Crowley’s damnable shirt plunged all the way to his breastbone, and Aziraphale’s fingertips followed it there, to the sparse patch of wiry, curling hairs just above the hemline, somehow both soft and rough under his touch. Crowley’s heart was thundering behind his ribcage, and Aziraphale flattened one hand over his chest and pressed, felt the pounding of it there, too. Slid his hand slowly down, the buttons of Crowley’s shirt biting into his palm over Crowley’s chest, his stomach….

Aziraphale turned sharply from the mirror and walked away from it, wringing his hands out, suddenly furious with himself, sick with it. Saints and martyrs what was he _doing_? This was _terribly_ transgressive, and… and _presumptuous_. He was borrowing this body, Crowley wasn’t even _here_.

Aziraphale, pacing, thought desperately of pouring another tall glass of wine, then rejected the thought immediately as a terrible idea under the circumstances. But what was he going to _do_ with himself now? There could be no more rehearsing in the mirror; clearly being left alone with Crowley’s body was too—_distracting_. He fumbled for his pocket watch, remembered, and looked instead at Crowley’s ridiculous wristwatch. Aziraphale groaned. It was _hours_ yet before their scheduled meeting in St. James’ Park. Well, maybe he would get lucky and Hell would come for him sooner rather than later.

Huffing a sigh, Aziraphale abandoned the kitchen in favor of Crowley’s little arboretum. He hadn’t had a chance to admire it properly, before. Crowley’s botany collection was intriguing, the only spot of life and color in the dark, cavernous flat. The plants were glossy and lush; Crowley clearly put a great deal of effort into caring for them. An unexpected, yet somehow unsurprising detail. Aziraphale smiled helplessly. Yes, it was very Crowley.

Aziraphale crouched down to admire a bromeliad; it was quite striking, a deep green, tiger-striped with dusty silver. “Oh, hello you,” he greeted warmly, gently stroking a leaf. “Yes, you _are_ very handsome, aren’t you?” He noted a faint sense of surprise from the plant, and then in a flurry of activity it pushed up a carnation-pink flower spike, a cluster of soft purple flower buds bursting out as it unfolded. Aziraphale blushed. “Goodness, my dear, you’re simply too kind.” He stood up, turning to address the entire collection. “You’re all doing _brilliantly_, loves, keep up the good work!” There was the faintest hint of a soft sigh, and every plant in the room grew another inch.

Feeling much better about things, Aziraphale went into the study to give some of Crowley’s art a closer look. The bronze Horus was quite lovely, prettier for having oxidized to teal with age. The feather-work was exquisite. Aziraphale touched it with his fingers just lightly then rubbed his fingertips together under his nose, sniffing. About 560 B.C., at a guess. How _wonderful_.

Aziraphale turned, looking around, and his attention was caught by the stone eagle at the far end of the flat. He’d noticed it as they’d headed to bed the night before; there was something… familiar about it, but he’d been too tired to think about it much at the time. He walked down the hallway and stood in front of it, curious. Yes, he did feel like he’d seen it somewhere before, and there was a faint smell about it, rock dust and smoke….

Oh. Aziraphale blinked several times. _Oh._ It was the eagle from the church. _The_ church, that night in the Blitz, when Crowley had dashingly come to rescue him from those awful Nazis and had even remembered to save all of his books. Yes, and now Aziraphale could even _taste_ it on the air, the slight tang of both angelic and demonic miracles lingering on the stone. Crowley had _kept_ it—

Aziraphale’s heart stopped. “Oh, _Crowley_,” he breathed.

That night in 1941 had been an important one for Aziraphale, one of the single most important moments of his existence thus far. They’d been having a bit of a tiff the previous few decades, since their meeting in the park in 1862 (Aziraphale’s fault, again, his fault _entirely_), and they’d hardly spoken to or seen each other since.

But then Crowley had come swanning in to Aziraphale’s rescue like he so often did, and. …It wasn’t about the _books_, not really. It was that Crowley had thought of them, he’d remembered when even Aziraphale hadn’t, he’d known what Aziraphale would need and without a moment’s consideration he’d taken care of it, easy as breathing. Like he always, always had.

Up until that point Aziraphale had been quite consciously holding back, trying to keep his feelings boxed up—concerned less about the feelings themselves, more about the things they made him want to do, or not do. And there had still been a line he hadn’t been willing to cross, etched into the bedrock of his reality—a line carved by duty, and obedience—

But blast it all he _loved_ Crowley, and at the very least Crowley deserved to be treated with the consideration he’d always given Aziraphale, deserved to feel that he was _seen_, that he was cared for, the way Crowley always made _him_ feel. So Aziraphale had invited Crowley to his for drinks that night. And a couple of weeks later to the opera. And a month or so after that to a showing of a film he knew Crowley would like, even if Aziraphale didn’t much. He didn’t pretend it was just part of their Arrangement, didn’t wait for a plausible excuse. He simply rang him up from time to time, “Crowley, dear, they’ve booked Stéphane Grappelli at my favorite club—oh you’d _adore_ him, do say you’ll join me.”

Crowley had seemed surprised, and then confused, and then, finally, pleased, and Aziraphale had felt the satisfaction and clarity of knowing that he was doing something _good_, something _right_, and perhaps after all he was just the slightest bit grateful to those nasty German spies for helping to facilitate a small epiphany.

And, well. The significance of the night must not have escaped Crowley either because _Crowley_—

Crowley had gone back to dig through the rubble and he’d taken a little piece of that night for himself, he’d stolen it away and he’d _kept_ it.

Aziraphale was nearly overwhelmed by the love he felt in that moment, filling him up and flooding out of him like a rising tide. “Oh dearest,” he whispered to the statue, the sour tang of regret mixed in with the sweet. He should never have let Crowley feel undervalued, _unappreciated_, not even for a second.

But then he had done, hadn’t he, the last couple of days. Again. He’d treated Crowley _wretchedly_. Crowley deserved better. He deserved _more_. Oh, Aziraphale had so much to make up for, if only Crowley would let him. If they both _survived_.

Aziraphale turned away from the statue and went out to Crowley’s balcony, looking out over the city, towards Soho, towards his beloved demon. Even now Heaven could be coming for Crowley, and there was nothing Aziraphale could do to protect him. _Useless._ Aziraphale hugged himself, hugged Crowley’s dear, fragile mortal body, and prayed.

(It wasn’t until later, of course, that Heaven came for Crowley, dragged him away right in front of Aziraphale’s eyes. It was all he could do to keep his wings contained, to not reach for the nearest sword-shaped object and chase after him. And when the crowbar came down on his head, all-encompassing pain searing through his skull like lightning, before he blacked out the only thought he could conjure was, _At least it was me, and not him._)

~ ~ ~

Well, the plan had worked. They’d both survived. Crowley had even succeeded in stopping himself from clawing the eyes out of Gabriel’s smirking fucking face (if you can call that _success_).

Later, at the Ritz, Crowley put his chin in his hand and watched Aziraphale work his way through cheese and fruit and mousse and gelato and delightful little fiddly pastries and glass after glass of excellent champagne and felt something… settle, deep in the center of him. There was something so comfortingly familiar about all of this, something that soothed the rough edges where panic and fear and loss had ripped through him over the past few days. But there was a feeling of something _different_ too, the breathless sensation of standing at the edge of a precipice, not knowing what comes next. Aziraphale could feel it too, Crowley could see it in him, could feel it in the faint frisson of nervous energy in the air between them like static electricity.

Crowley felt strangely calm.

“Mmm, _delectable_,” Aziraphale said at last, delicately touching his lips with his napkin. “I don’t believe I could eat another bite.” He signaled a waiter for the bill.

Crowley was watching his face, couldn’t quite stop. Aziraphale’s cheeks were flushed with champagne and pleasure. Beautiful. “What shall we do now, angel?”

Aziraphale hesitated. The precipice loomed. “I… I don’t know,” he said uncertainly. “It seems far too early to turn in, it’s still the middle of the afternoon. And yet… I must admit I am still feeling… rather tired. …It’s been quite a week, hasn’t it?” He smiled at Crowley, somewhat tremulously.

“Yeah,” Crowley agreed. He caught his breath, then forced himself to let it go again. “You can come over to mine again,” he suggested lightly, carefully. “…I know you don’t have to. But if you want to.”

Aziraphale breathed in, a soft, audible inhalation. He glanced away for a moment, then turned back to Crowley, looking him dead in the eye. “Yes,” he said. “I do want to.” He smiled, just a little.

Crowley smiled back, still feeling a surreal sort of calm, but also having trouble breathing around a sudden infestation of Lepidoptera in his chest cavity. “Well then, angel,” he managed. “Shall we?”

Crowley could not have recounted later what exactly transpired between the Ritz and his building. It passed in a sort of daze. He didn’t think they talked much. He had a vague sense of Aziraphale murmuring occasionally, light observations about this and that; he thought he was probably doing the same. This lapsed into a comfortable silence as they rode the lift to his floor.

They paused at his front door while Crowley fished for his keys. “What do you think, shall we have some more of that Balvenie?” Crowley asked, sorting through the jumble of keys for the correct one.

“Mmm,” Aziraphale replied, taking Crowley’s hand and intertwining their fingers. Crowley dropped his keys.

“Shit!” Crowley ducked down, hastily scooping them off the floor. He straightened and turned to stare at Aziraphale, entirely dumbfounded. The angel looked calmly back, smiling beatifically at him, and did not let go of his hand. Crowley fumbled desperately with his keys.

“Let me, dear,” Aziraphale said, snapping. The door swung open and Aziraphale went in, dragging Crowley numbly in his wake. Approximately one half of a brain cell wrested itself from his stupor long enough for him to snap the door shut behind them.

Crowley stared down at their clasped hands and tried to make sense of what he was seeing, drifting along behind Aziraphale as he marched confidently into the flat. The angel pulled Crowley down the hall and into the study, stopping abruptly in the middle of the room and turning to face him. Momentum kept Crowley drifting forward for another couple of seconds before he stopped himself and oh, no, they were standing much too close together to be comfortable, but then Aziraphale took another step _closer_ and put his free hand on Crowley’s cheek and leaned in—

And _kissed_ him—

Crowley shuddered all over and couldn’t do anything at all but lean into it, making a small, helpless noise of surprise and wonder and ‘yes, please, this, more, _always_.’

The kiss was soft, and tender, and earnest, and warm, and just the slightest bit wicked, all of the things that Aziraphale always was—and over far too soon. Aziraphale pulled back from him, a terrible yawning chasm of several entire inches between them. He searched Crowley’s face, a tiny, hopeful smile on his lips, his cheeks flushed and burning red.

Crowley felt like someone had broken a chair over his head. He gaped, entirely flummoxed. “…_What?_” he croaked.

Aziraphale looked sad, regretful, but thankfully didn’t move away. He brushed his fingers over Crowley’s cheek, stroked Crowley’s cheekbone with his thumb. “Oh, my dear. I believe I owe you an apology.”

Crowley’s head was spinning. “You want to apologize for kissing me?” he asked, preparing to be outraged.

“No, I want to apologize for not kissing you three hundred years ago.”

“_What._”

“I should’ve kissed you when I first knew that I loved you, specifically you, capital-L love. I should’ve kissed you when you came to rescue me in Paris. When you asked me for the holy water that first time and I got scared, I yelled at you, I hurt you. I should’ve kissed you instead. When you burned your feet walking into a church to rescue me in the Blitz, I _definitely_ should’ve kissed you. In your car, in 1967, I should’ve kissed you. When you asked me to run away with you. Both times. I should’ve kissed you last night, and this morning. I wanted to. Desperately.”

“Angel,” Crowley rasped helplessly. He was reeling. He felt as if Aziraphale’s hand on his face, Aziraphale’s fingers entwined in his own were the only things holding him in place, that if Aziraphale let him go he would crumple to the floor or float off into space, he wasn’t sure which.

Aziraphale noticed. He brushed his fingers over Crowley’s cheek again, tenderly. “Come, dear,” he said. “Let’s sit.”

Crowley numbly let Aziraphale lead him over to the sofa and sit them both down. He clung determinedly to Aziraphale’s hand. Lucif—Somebody help him, he didn’t intend to let go of him, not ever again. “Last night?” he asked, as if this was somehow more astonishing than the rest of it. “And this morning? _Desperately?_”

“Oh dearest, _yes_.” Aziraphale looked pained. “It was all I could think about. And I was worried… I was so worried that something might go wrong, that it was my last chance, and I was missing it.”

Crowley’s mouth was dry. “You could’ve,” he said. “Why didn’t you?”

“I needed to concentrate. I couldn’t afford to be distracted and, and maybe blow the whole thing. It was a risky enough gambit already, I couldn’t take the chance that I might muck it up. If something had happened to you… oh, Crowley. I’d never forgive myself.” Aziraphale looked wretched at the thought, squeezing Crowley’s hand tightly.

“Angel.” Crowley stared. “Are you saying you were worried that if you kissed me you would’ve been so distracted you might’ve messed up the plan?”

Aziraphale blushed. “I don’t know if you’ve ever noticed this, Crowley, but whenever you come up in casual conversation with someone I have a tendency to entirely lose the plot. In fact, I’m fairly certain I accidentally put the archangels onto us when I went Upstairs to report in about the Antichrist on Friday. I only meant to imply that you’d mislaid the Antichrist on purpose as a sort of ruse, but once I said your name I completely forgot what I was doing and I _may_ have gone on about you a bit too much.”

Crowley thought of Anathema at the air base demanding to know what was going on, and Aziraphale starting in on _how they had met_ in _Eden_ and saying ‘_wily_ old serpent’ with his delighted little smile—

Aziraphale’s cheeks were burning. “And that’s just what happens _normally_, when thinking of you catches me by surprise, I can’t imagine what might’ve happened if, if I was thinking about what it felt like to kiss you.”

Crowley’s heart lurched within his chest. “You could kiss me again, now,” he blurted, and Aziraphale practically flung himself across the space between them.

Crowley’s arms were around Aziraphale and the angel’s hands were in his hair, Aziraphale was very nearly actually in Crowley’s lap and Crowley lifted his knee to curl around him, get as close as possible, _closer_, and it was _good_, it was _everything_. The angel’s mouth on his was searing hot like a brand, warm like coming home, Aziraphale kissed and kissed and kissed him, thoroughly, relentlessly… _greedily_, chasing Crowley’s tongue like the last bite of crème brûlée, like the last drop of a fine port. If Crowley could just live here, in this moment, he fucking would, he would build himself a little house and dwell in it and never be away from Aziraphale’s warmth, the smell of his skin, from his breathy sighs and the tug of his fingers in Crowley’s hair and the tiny noise of complaint in the back of his throat when he tried to get closer to Crowley and _couldn’t_. Crowley could get drunk on this, this feeling, the _taste_ of him.

Too soon, _again_ too soon, Aziraphale began to pull away from the kiss. More gradually this time, slowing the pace from frantic to methodical to gentle, easing off by degrees with a series of soft, tiny kisses pressed to Crowley’s lips, finally just laying his forehead against Crowley’s and breathing, his arms draped loosely around Crowley’s neck and shoulders. Crowley reached up with one shaky hand to card his fingers through the downy candyfloss of Aziraphale’s hair, and the angel hummed, pleased.

Crowley didn’t dare try his voice; his entire damned heart was shoved high up into his throat, choking him. “_Aziraphale_,” he whispered, and didn’t go further, didn’t know how, was afraid to.

Aziraphale pulled away from him—Crowley made a small noise of distress—but it was only so the angel could smile at him and touch his face with gentle, wondering hands, so that was alright, actually. Aziraphale wrinkled his nose, laying his fingers on the temples of Crowley’s sunglasses. “I’m taking these off,” he warned Crowley, and waited a moment before gently sliding the glasses from Crowley’s face, carefully folding them, and turning to place them on the arm of the sofa behind him. Aziraphale turned back to look into Crowley’s eyes and smiled even wider, adoration practically blinding in its intensity. He pressed a warm hand to Crowley’s cheek. “Oh my love,” he murmured, “there you are.”

Crowley’s breath hitched. That was twice now he’d said it. “Angel,” he tried desperately, “I—” His jaw worked soundlessly. He tried again. “You are— I _do_, I—” Crowley could feel himself start to panic.

“Shhh, Crowley. Oh I know, dearheart, I know,” Aziraphale soothed, brushing Crowley’s hair back from his forehead with careful fingers. “I’ve always known. …I _am_ an angel.” He offered up a wobbly smile.

Crowley leaned forward, resting his forehead against Aziraphale’s and closing his eyes, let this revelation wash through him—feeling relief, shame, sadness. _Relief_. “I’d wondered,” he admitted quietly. “…You never said anything.”

One of Aziraphale’s hands curled around the back of Crowley’s neck. “I didn’t think I should,” he said quietly back. “I wasn’t ready—I wasn’t willing—” Crowley heard the angel swallow. “It seemed to me it would’ve been cruel,” he said, even quieter, his voice tinged with what sounded like regret. “But I felt it, every bit of it. And I’m grateful for it. I always have been.”

Crowley swallowed, nodding. It was an old hurt, one that didn’t even usually hurt anymore, most of the time. This game they’d played for centuries, where Aziraphale pretended he didn’t want, didn’t _love_, and Crowley pretended he didn’t see it. “What’s changed?” he asked.

Aziraphale laughed softly, bitterly. “You mean besides everything in the entire universe?” He lifted his head, nudged Crowley to do the same. Crowley opened his eyes, and the whole world was Aziraphale. “Crowley my love,” he murmured, “I’m so sorry. I’ve _been_ sorry.” The angel’s eyes were gray-green-blue and luminous, and filled with pain. Crowley ached to fix it, to kiss him until the pain left them. He could see that Aziraphale was working through something, however, so he bit his forked tongue, waited.

“I know you don’t remember all of Heaven very clearly,” Aziraphale started, softly, “but I’m sure you remember, you must… being an angel is about obedience, it’s about following the rules. We aren’t supposed to want things for ourselves. …It wasn’t that I loved you—I was never ashamed of that, _never_. But I was afraid. Not just of what would happen if we were caught, although of course that too. But… over the centuries, as my feelings grew stronger… love is all well and good, Crowley, but it’s actions that matter, and I was concerned I was slipping. It was what I might do, or not do, because of my feelings for you—it felt dangerous.” Pain flickered across the angel’s face. “If—my dear, if orders had ever come down that put us in direct opposition—if things had come to blows—”

Crowley nodded, heart aching. “You’d have had to choose.” He’d never wanted that for Aziraphale. He’d never wanted to _change_ him. Anyway, Heaven would’ve won that fight—

“Oh my dear, no, there’d be no _choice_,” Aziraphale insisted. “I would’ve been forced to disobey. I would’ve Fallen.” Crowley stopped breathing, could only stare, shocked. “I didn’t _want_ that,” Aziraphale continued. “I was, as the humans say, a company man. I _believed_, Crowley. I believed in the rules, in the plan. I thought we were doing _good_.”

Of course he had. His angel wanted to believe good of everyone, whether or not they deserved it. “…But not anymore?”

Distress furrowed Aziraphale’s brow, set him to anxiously wringing his hands. “The rules… I don’t… they’re not—_blast_ the rules! I don’t like them! They’re wrong! They’re not mine, not anymore….” Aziraphale was trembling. Crowley reached for him helplessly, rubbed his shoulders soothingly, shushing him. He pressed a kiss to the center of Aziraphale’s forehead, felt the angel lean into it. “I honestly thought,” Aziraphale continued, plaintive, “that if I could get high enough up the chain of command then of course they would see there didn’t _have_ to be a war, they’d call the whole thing off and everything would be fine. I got as far as the Metatron, the Voice of God. He. I honestly _thought_—! But then….”

They’d broken Aziraphale’s heart. The _fucking_ bastards. Crowley could feel his breaking as well. “Oh, angel… have you lost your _faith_?”

Aziraphale caught his breath, opening his mouth as if to speak, stopped. His lips trembled through a few false starts; then, very quietly: “…I think I have.” Crowley’s heart _wrenched_. “Oh, I want to believe in the Almighty, I do, I still do… although to be completely honest I’m a little… dismayed, that She has been so distant from all of this. But after all, Her plan is ineffable, there _must_ be reasons! The archangels’ plan, though, Heaven’s plan… no. I can’t believe in that. It’s… it’s….” Aziraphale struggled mightily, turning red in the face. “…It’s a SHIT plan!” Crowley’s eyebrows climbed up practically to his hairline. Aziraphale sighed. “I can only hope that whatever God’s true plan is, that… that I am playing a part in it. And since the plan is _ineffable_… I’m just going to have to trust in myself to know what’s right. …And trust in you, my dear.” Aziraphale gave him a smile that was just barely holding itself together, but it was real, sharply sweet and beautiful.

It knocked Crowley slightly breathless. “You trust me?”

Aziraphale’s smile widened, the love in it almost a physical thing, thick and heavy and warm. His hand curled around Crowley’s jaw. “Oh, Crowley. You’ve never let me down, not once.”

Crowley was helpless to do anything but push forward and kiss him, cradling Aziraphale’s face in his hands as he tried to push several centuries’ accumulated adoration into the press of his lips, into the touch of his tongue. Aziraphale made a noise somewhere between a hum and a whimper and curled his hand around the back of Crowley’s neck, keeping him there, as if Crowley would try to leave, as if Crowley would go anywhere without him ever again.

Crowley didn’t know what to do with all of the feelings churning inside him, a dizzying maelstrom of love, delight, relief, gratitude… _sorrow_. He was sorry on the angel’s behalf, in mourning for what Aziraphale had lost, and he was _angry_ about it too, almost shaking with it.

“They let you down, the fucking _wankerssssss_,” he hissed, furious. He pulled back just enough to see Aziraphale’s eyes. The angel was smiling at him, fond. “They let you down. I’ll never, I’ll—” Panicking suddenly, pained, unsure if he could live up to what Aziraphale deserved. “I’ll _try_—”

“Oh I know, sweetheart, I know. Me too. From now on I will too, I promise,” and Aziraphale pulled him in for another kiss, and another, and the shaky feeling ebbed, Aziraphale’s warmth pressed closed to him, Aziraphale’s fingers brushing lightly at the back of Crowley’s neck, through the short hairs at his nape cooling and quieting his turmoil like a heavy snowfall muffles sound. They stayed close, curled into each other and just breathing, foreheads pressed together, trading small, soft kisses when the impulse struck.

Crowley pulled back so he could look at Aziraphale’s face again, touch his cheekbone, his mouth, lightly trace the shell of his ear, marveling at the luxuriousness of it, reveling at the light in the angel’s eyes as he watched Crowley back. “So, uh. You _haven’t_ Fallen. I can’t help but notice.”

Aziraphale hummed thoughtfully. “I’m starting to think they won’t bother. Better to sweep the entire affair under the rug. Wouldn’t do for word to get out that one of their own helped to prevent Armageddon. And then couldn’t be killed for it. …Anyway, I’m not certain they’re terribly keen to send me down Below, after _your_ stellar performance.” His eyes twinkled mischievously.

Crowley grinned viciously. “I _did_ enjoy the looks on their faces. I thought Sandalphon was going to piss himself.”

Aziraphale tsked. “You foul thing,” he chided, sounding completely delighted. After a moment, his fond look faded to a more pensive expression. “I think—” he began hesitantly. “I think in a way I _have_ Fallen. I’ve Fallen to Earth. They sent me down here a long time ago, it’s just taken a while for the last bit of me to catch up. I certainly don’t reside in Heaven any longer.” A smile came to his face, hesitantly at first, then stronger. “It’s all right, though. More than. _This_ is where I belong, where I’ve always belonged. With all of them—” He gestured vaguely. His smile brightened, warmed, like a well-stoked fire. “And with you.”

Crowley didn’t think this finite mortal body could possibly contain all that he was feeling. He snatched up Aziraphale’s hand, intertwined their fingers, pressed a fervent kiss to his knuckles. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be,” he swore hoarsely. “For the next six thousand years. Forever.”

“Yes,” pledged Aziraphale, eyes shining. “As you said so cleverly, love, we’ve left the Garden now. But we’ll face whatever’s out there.” He pressed the lightest kiss to Crowley’s mouth, a blessing and a promise. “Together.”

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place in what I am considering my Good Omens Earth Prime. I have fic ideas I need to deal with in other close parallel universes, but I expect I'll be coming back to play with ideas in this continuity again. Possibly sexier ideas. >.>
> 
> Title is a lyric from ["From Eden" by Hozier](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JmWbBUxSNUU). This song has been getting so much traction in this fandom, lol.
> 
> While we're at it, a short selection of songs directly relevant to this fic, in no particular order:  
["In Our Bedroom After The War" by Stars](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eyP_jjv_udQ)  
["Alone Together" by Fall Out Boy](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BBmEk_RYPaM)  
["Nothing Fails" by Madonna](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oIiykBUPYWI)  
["All The Trees Of The Field Will Clap Their Hands" by Sufjan Stevens](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JHul8vzXsV8)
> 
> ALSO, look, you just have to see [how pretty these snake eyes are](https://newagora.ca/wp-content/uploads/2018/01/Snake-Eye.jpg).
> 
> Come be my friend on twitter if you like, @zolacnomiko. I'm nice, promise!


End file.
